His Crimson Blood
by 221bhannah
Summary: John thinks back over the events of Sherlock's fall. One shot. Set just after trf. DISCLAIMER: Sadly, these characters do not belong to me.


It was the hardest thing I ever did. I had to watch him jump, and then I had to see him covered in all that...stuff. It still haunts my nightmares and almost every waking hour of my day.

Those last few moments play over and over in my head. I can't find the off switch.

"Goodbye, John."

I shake my head. "No. Don't. No."

Maybe if I'd said something else - something more - maybe he wouldn't have done it. I wish I'd said more.

His hand flicks out to the side, and then both arms are spread, ready. He looks like a bird, about to swoop down and catch its prey.

I'm frozen in place, both by his words and by the image before me.

He leans forwards, and he's falling. His arms circle elegantly. Even in death, he has his dignity. The coat flails out due to the rush of air.

"SHERLOCK!"

It's too late. It's all too late. I waited too long. Why didn't I do something?

I remain frozen until the moment he disappears behind the building; then, I'm running.

The world around me is nothing more than a grey smear.

Next: bam! I don't even know what hit me, but suddenly I'm on the floor. For a second, everything is forgotten - how could I have forgotten? I can't believe I could allow myself to do it, even for an instant - then it all comes flooding back.

With a groan, I push myself up. Everything swims and twists momentarily in front of my eyes, and I stumble as I get to my feet.

My pace quickens with each step, and then I'm round the corner of the ambulance block. People are already running to the scene. I catch a glimpse of red.

"Sh...Sherlock."

I start to push past people, but others try to hold me back. I protest.

"I'm a doctor. Let me come through... Let me come through. Please. He's my friend..."

The final person moves and my eyes latch on to the body. All I can see is black and red and his pale face. Too pale. His eyes are open but unseeing. Empty.

"...he's my friend". My voice cracks and my legs give way. I drop towards the floor. People reach out and break the fall. I crumple at his side and reach for him. I need to touch him.

Under the pads of my fingers, his skin feels warm and soft. I feel for the pulse, but it's not there. I want to search more, feel his neck, but someone pulls my hand back.

"Jesus, no... God, no."

I can feel myself wobbling, but I can't tear my eyes away from his. They're too empty and lost and...I can't. My heart breaks right there on the pavement, and all I want to do is spill my own blood so that it mixes with his. I don't want him to leave me.

More people come and roll Sherlock onto his back. Blood has plastered his hair to his face. The contrast is stark and raw.

They lift his body up onto the stretcher. His arm flops lifelessly over the side, and bounces a little as he's wheeled away. I never see him again.

I have no strength left. I collapse onto the floor and my hands land in the blood. His blood. They're coated. My tears mix with the crimson liquid.

I weep and weep, unhearing and unmoving; fixated on the red, on the blood.

"John? Oh God, John."

Leatrade sounds devastated. He pauses as he sees the blood, but training takes over, and he kneels down beside me.

"John."

I look to him. His eyes are filled with pain, despair and concern. He reaches out and places a tentative hand on my shoulder.

"You need to come inside, John."

My face crumples in anguish. "I can't."

Fresh tears fall from my eyes. In Afghanistan, I thought I'd felt the worst pain imaginable. I was wrong. This is far worse than I even knew was possible. How can one person feel so much? I am broken.

After a few minutes, Lestrade gently guides me to my feet. Someone else helps to steady me.

The next thing I know, I'm sitting on a hard plastic chair with a warm blanket around me.

Lestrade crouches down in front of me. "John, we need to clean you up." He says carefully, motioning towards my hands.

I study them. There's blood etched into every line. His blood. I shake my head.

"No. It's all I have left of him."

"John, you can't have that on you. It won't help."

After much coaxing, I allow the last of him to leave me behind. All it took to finally defeat the Great Man was some warm, soapy water. Fresh tears fill my eyes.

I've replayed that phone call thousands of times, thinking of all the things I could have done differently.

But it's too late. It's all too late. He's gone, but I'm still here.

I get up and walk over to the wardrobe. My limp is back and worse than ever.

I pull out a box and open it delicately. At the top is the shirt I was wearing. It still has his blood staining the pale fabric. I'm reminded of his face covered in the contrast of dark and light.

Underneath is one of his shirts. The one he wore the day before he jumped. It was never washed.

I press the shirt against my face. It did smell of him, but time hasn't been kind enough to leave even that.

Now, all I have left of Sherlock Holmes is a shirt that no longer bears his scent.


End file.
